Partners
by MusicWritesMyLife
Summary: "When she tells him she's going to teach him to dance, his first reaction is to refuse. When he feels the warmth of her bare hand through his driving gloves as she laces her fingers with his and drags him into the meadow, however, he can't seem to say no." Appalled that Branson can't dance, Sybil decides to teach him. The result is not what either of them expected. Pre-war S/B.
1. Chapter 1

**My first foray into the Downton fandom! I ****couldn't get over the cuteness of Sybil and Branson, regardless of the tragic ending, and this little plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone. **

**Reviews are welcome!**

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**I**

Tom Branson can't dance.

Not in the traditional sense, that is. He can do a little two-step as well as any Irishman, but when it comes to _real_ dances—the kind meant to be done in a ballroom—he's hopeless.

It's never been a problem, of course. For a man in his situation, invitations to balls are few and far between. Ever since starting at Downton and meeting Sybil, however, he can't help wondering if he should have at least tried to learn. She loves to dance more than anything and he's found himself dreaming of whirling across a crowded room with her in his arms.

"It's going to be such a bore, but at least there will be dancing, which is a comfort. I do love to dance. It's so...invigorating, don't you think, Branson?" Sybil's smile is radiant. She hasn't talked of anything but the ball being given by the Duke of Essex in a week's time since they got in the car.

"I couldn't say, m'lady. I don't dance," he replies, unable to stop the smile curving on the corners of his mouth. Her happiness is infectious, enough to make him forget his embarrassment.

She gasps, as if he's just told her he killed his mother. "Don't dance? But didn't you ever learn?"

The image of Mam and Da teaching him and his siblings to waltz in their overcrowded kitchen makes him chuckle. "Not everyone has time for fancy dance lessons, m'lady."

"Well." She frowns, blue eyes steely. She looks beautiful when she's determined, and he makes himself look away quickly, trying not to imagine what it would be like to smooth the furrows in her brow with his thumb. "I suppose we'll have to fix that."

Her tone is quiet, but there's something about it that sets his stomach aflutter. Whatever it is she's planning, he can only hope she'll forget about it. Nothing good can possibly come of it.

**II**

"You dance very well, Lady Sybil. I daresay the pleasure of watching you dance is nearly equal to that of being your partner."

Sybil smiles. It is not the first time she has dance with Lord Edward Hamilton this evening, or the first time he has complimented her on her skills. "You musn't flatter me too much, Lord Hamilton," she replies sweetly. "My mother and sisters shall never forgive you for making me impossible to live with."

Hamilton chuckles. "I should find it very difficult to believe you could ever be impossible to live with, Lady Sybil."

His hand slides lower on her waist, but she no longer feels the thrill of excitement at the prospect of a suitor. She only longs for the arms of one man, who is likely drinking whisky by his fire—he thinks she doesn't know the effect her being with other men has on him, but she does—and in whose company she can never be seen in a ballroom according to social law.

The knowledge that he can't dance has troubled her. There has been many a ball—particularly during the season—where she wished it were Branson whirling her across the floor, if only so that she might have someone intellectual to converse with. And to have those fantasies marred by the knowledge that he doesn't dance...

She'll simply have to teach him. It can't be that hard; she's sure he's not as uncoordinated as some of the gentlemen she's danced with. And he's quite clever. No doubt he'll pick up the steps in no time.

Then perhaps one day, when he is a politician and she has the vote, she won't have to worry about boring dance partners anymore.

**III **

He's always found manual labour to be an excellent way to vent his frustrations. The work is arduous, but it keeps his hands—and more importantly his mind—busy, which, in light of recent developments, is a good thing.

While he may not be privy to as much of the gossip as the house staff, he's heard enough about Lady Sybil's success at the Duke of Essex's ball—particularly with one Lord Hamilton—to feel the familiar stirrings of jealousy in his stomach.

So instead of paying another visit to Lord Grantham's library on his afternoon off, Tom finds himself on his back underneath one of the cars, checking for problems. He knows he won't find any, but meticulously examining all the parts keeps him from thinking about Sybil in the arms of Lord Hamilton.

"Is there something wrong?"

He immediately begins to rise at the sound of her voice, only to stop himself moments before slamming his head into the underside of the car. Lowering himself back down, he eases himself out slowly to find Sybil standing by the workbench. She's frowning again, and he has to stop himself from reaching out to smooth her furrowed brow.

"With the car?"

"Yes. I thought since you were under there—"

"Oh, no I was just checking. Wouldn't want to break down on the side of the road, would we?"

Sybil smiles. "No. We wouldn't."

There's a brief silence. After a moment, Tom can't take it anymore.

"Is there something I can help you with, m'lady?"

Sybil blinks, startled. "Oh, no, not really. I just—well, I wanted you to know that I need a drive into Ripon tomorrow."

He won't deny his heart rate picks up at the thought of time spent alone with her. "Of course. What time shall I bring the car round?"

"Nine," she replies. He's surprised by the early hour—most rich folk like to sleep late.

"I'll be ready."

Sybil smiles, eyes sparkling mischievously. "I should hope so," she murmurs as she makes her way to the door.

Tom can only stare, mesmerised. He has no idea what she means. He's not sure he wants to find out.

**IV**

The drive is quiet. Sybil is afraid she can't open her mouth without spoiling the surprise, and Branson seems to be waiting for her to initiate the conversation. He still thinks she's going to Ripon for one of her meetings.

She's been up since dawn. It may seem silly, but there's something about the thought of dancing with Branson that makes her feel giddy.

She still can't believe he doesn't know how to dance at all—he _is _Irish. Besides, he didn't say he doesn't know _how_ to dance, just that he doesn't dance. He may very well know how and just chooses not to.

"So which meeting are you off to today, m'lady?" Branson grins at her in the rearview mirror.

"We aren't," Sybil says breathlessly, trying to quell some of her excitement. "We aren't going to Ripon at all."

Branson frowns. "M'lady—"

"I know what you're thinking, but it's not going to be like the count. I promise."

"I'm not sure that His Lordship would'—"

Sybil rolls her eyes. "Really, Branson. Do you think I would put you in a compromising position?" Catching sight of his devious grin she continues, blushing, "I can assure you there is nothing dangerous about what we're about to do."

He chuckles. "I think I'll be the judge of that, m'lady."

The mischievous sparkle in his blue eyes makes her stomach flutter and she glances away to hide the colour rising in her cheeks. "Pull over, please, Branson." There's a small meadow just off the side of the road that will be perfect for their first lesson.

"Is something wrong, m'lady?"

Sybil grins. "I'm going to teach you how to dance."

**V **

When she tells him she's going to teach him to dance, his first reaction is to refuse. He's already in enough trouble with Lord Grantham after what happened at the count and doesn't want to make more trouble for himself. When he feels the warmth of her bare hand through his driving gloves as she laces her fingers with his and drags him into the meadow, however, he can't seem to make himself care about that anymore.

"So have you really never danced before?" Sybil asks, clearly unable to fathom the idea.

Tom can't help smiling. "Of course I can dance, m'lady. Only, it's not what your kind would call dancing." He does a little two-step to demonstrate.

Sybil laughs. "If only that were what was being done in the ballrooms. But since it isn't, I feel obliged to teach you. The servant's ball is the highlight of the year for the staff and you won't be able to get out of it this year."

The meaningful stare tells him she knows he wasn't really ill last year. His lack of dancing skills was part of the reason he'd stayed away, but a larger part was because the whole evening makes the class divide so much more apparent. This year, he's not sure he wants to stay home, with or without the dancing lessons.

When she pulls him close, placing his hand on her back and taking the other firmly in her grasp, there is no longer any doubt in his mind. Terrible as he might be, there's no way he's going to pass up a chance to waltz with Lady Sybil.

**VI**

It seems Branson wasn't lying when he said he didn't dance.

He's not terrible, Sybil concedes as she lies in bed, eyes tracing patterns on the darkened ceiling. He doesn't step on her toes or try to take the lead, but he does hold himself frightfully stiff.

She knows she's put him in a compromising position. While things between them haven't changed terribly since the count, he's much more aware of the boundaries that _should_ exist between them. She's sure that if he would only stop worrying about how many rules they might be breaking and try to enjoy himself a little, he would be much better at it. She believes he can be a very good dancer, and only wishes he had the confidence in himself. The steps are different from what he's used to, but not _so_ different.

If she were as selfless as everyone believes her to be, she wouldn't pursue this any further. Branson is obviously uncomfortable—either with the steps or the situation—and the kind thing to do would be to put him out of his misery.

Unfortunately, Sybil isn't selfless. She can't help remembering the weight of Branson's hand on her back—not low enough to be improper, but too low to be informal—or the outline of his fingers through his driving gloves. Even now, the memory makes her stomach flutter.

As she drifts off to sleep, she wonders if tomorrow is too soon for their next lesson.

**VII**

Ever since he was a boy, Tom's loved to dance. It brings back memories of cold winter evenings crowded in the kitchen with Da and Seamus playing the fiddle and Mam taking turns whirling them all around the room. Everything about it is relaxed and free, which isn't something he has a lot of anymore.

What Sybil is trying to teach him, however, isn't dancing. Not _his_ kind of dancing, at any rate. He knew it would be different—people like _them_ love all things stiff and formal and uncomfortable—but he had no idea of just _how_ different. The steps are confusing, the posture unnatural, and the pace entirely too slow. There's nothing free and joyous about it; it's more akin to torture than entertainment.

Being granted an excuse to hold Sybil close, however, to rest his hand on the dip of her back and grasp her palm with his own, makes his heart soar. When he stumbles along with her in the grass, the air filled with her laughter as she gently tries to correct his mistakes, all the rules and boundaries fade away. He is just a man, and she is just a woman.

He's taken to practicing when no one is around; humming melodies he's heard spilling from ballroom windows throughout his years working as a chauffeur. Anna catches him one afternoon in the servant's hall, and, after taking one look at his miserable excuse for a waltz, offers to give him a few lessons—it's gotten too cold to practice in the meadow and he's not sure he trusts himself with her alone in the garage.

His progress is slow, but steady. As the weeks to the staff ball grow fewer, part of him wonders if this is all a good idea, but the thought of finally being able to dance with Sybil spurs him on. He's not tortured himself for months only to back out at the last minute.

**VIII**

The staff ball has always been Sybil's favourite. It's one of the few evenings where there are no expectations, no handsome young men being paraded in front of her or trying to put her in her proper place, and no need to be anything other than herself.

This year, however, Sybil is a nervous wreck. It's silly: she's dreamed of dancing with Branson during countless balls, and now that the time has come where she can, part of her is worried that he won't come, while the other part prays that he won't.

She's dancing the foxtrot with Thomas when she sees him. He's standing on the edge of the foyer, looking quite handsome in a simple brown suit and green tie that makes his eyes look bluer. He watches them with a stormy look in his eyes that makes Sybil's stomach flutter. No man has ever looked at her with such frank emotion before. It's exhilarating and terrifying.

Thomas relinquishes her at the end of the dance and she scurries away joyfully, snatching a glass of punch from a nearby table and downing the entire thing. Her hands are trembling and her whole body is filled with a terrible anticipation.

The familiar strains of a waltz fill the room and Sybil feels a light touch on her arm that makes her skin tingle. She knows before she turns who it is, but the sight of those shockingly blue eyes so close to her own takes her breath away.

"Might I have this dance, Lady Sybil?"

"Yes. Yes, you may." Her voice trembles, but she manages a real smile.

As he leads her on to the dance floor she realises this is can easily become a terrible mistake. If her father suspects how she feels about Branson and how, she suspects, he feels about her—she may be a proper young lady, but she isn't blind—threatening to run away may not be enough to fix the mess they will all be in.

When he whirls her into his arms and begins to steer her around the room, however, all her doubts disappear. Everything feels so right: the warmth of his hand on hers, the gentle pressure of his other hand against her back, the ease with which they move across the room. He's much better than she remembers him being last time, and feels a thrill of pleasure to realise that he has been practicing.

It isn't until the music has ended and she watches him go off to get punch with that earnest smile on his face that it hits her.

She'll never need another dance partner again.


	2. Chapter 2

**I intended this to be a one-shot, but I had some requests for an epilogue, and this was a scene that I wanted to include but couldn't fit it in. Enjoy! :)**

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**EPILOGUE**

Tom's late.

Sybil pretends it's nothing—she fears Saoirse will laugh at her—but worry blossoms in the pit of her stomach like an unwelcome flower. It's not like him to be late. He loves his work, and she's very happy he's found a job that he's passionate about, but he's always just as eager to get home. Back at Downton, he used to say there was nothing better than one of his mother's home-cooked meals—a risky thing to confess in Mrs Patmore's house. Now, he admits he was wrong: coming home to share one of his mother's meals with his fiancée is better.

He's likely working late. Or his editor has asked him to pop in for a chat on his way out. Surely there is a logical explanation, but with all the riots and shootings and tension rippling through the nation, she can't help wondering if he's lying in a gutter somewhere.

When he bursts through the door, charming, confident grin lighting his face like a Guy Fawkes bonfire, she is so relieved she nearly drops the plate she's holding. Mrs Branson scolds her with a gentle, "Watch it, love," and Saoirse giggles.

"What took you so long?" she mutters, turning her face up to accept his kiss.

Tom chuckles. "Worried, were you?"

Sybil glares at him. These things are hardly funny.

"I'm sorry, love." Tom at least has the decency to look a little abashed. "Let me make it up to you. Grab your coat."

Anticipation and surprise quickly replace her concern. She and Tom don't normally have much occasion to go out.

"Sybil and I are going out, Mam!" Tom hollers, helping Sybil into her coat. "Don't hold supper!"

"Now just one minute, Thomas Branson—" Mrs Branson exclaims, but Tom closes the door before she can say any more.

The air outside is crisp and clean, a reminder that autumn is not far off. Tom hums a little ditty to himself, seeming in very high spirits, and Sybil smiles, content to listen for a little while.

After several minutes, however—once they've veered away from all the familiar haunts—Sybil's curiosity is piqued. As Tom guides her down an unfamiliar alley to what looks like a small church hall, she can't keep quiet anymore.

"Where are we going?"

Tom just smiles mysteriously. "You'll see."

As they approach the door, Sybil can hear the familiar sounds of fiddles and drums—bodhrans, Tom says they're called. Her heart quickens—there's something about Irish music that's so lively, so _vital_, she can't help getting excited—and she wonders if they're doing what she thinks they are.

An older woman ushers them in the door with a smile, and takes their coats. The hall is warm, but not stifling. The music is much louder, and Sybil spots Tom's brother Allen in the corner, boot thumping the floor in time to the reel he coaxes from the fiddle strings. There's a small table set up in the corner with a few simple refreshments—tankards of beer and some sandwiches—but most of the room is filled with couples whooping and whirling in time to the music. The atmosphere is livelier than any ball, and Sybil can't stop the wide grin spreading across her face.

"I thought it was time I paid you back for all those dance lessons," Tom murmurs, taking her hand in his. "Come on."

He weaves expertly through the crowds, Sybil stumbling to keep up. Everyone's feet seem to be moving so fast and she has no idea how she'll possibly be able to keep up.

"I don't think you can call this a lesson," she calls over the music.

Tom grins, pulling her into his arms. "This isn't the sort of dancing you need to _learn_, milady," he replies cheekily, and they're off.

It's exhilarating. Sybil has never dances so fast—or so close—to anyone in her life. The steps _are_ impossibly fast, but Tom's right: she doesn't really need to learn. Everyone is doing something slightly different and no one seems to care.

Mary and Edith would scoff at something so uncivilised, something so decidedly middle-class, but Sybil has never felt more alive.

It's midnight before they leave, joining the last few stragglers trickling out of the hall. Sybil's lungs are burning, her feet ache, and her heart feels like it's going to burst out of her chest, but she can't bring herself to care. She may not have been the best dancer in the room—she and Tom have both agreed she is no better than he was when he first started—and she'll never be quite as confident as Tom, who had sometime akin to a dance battle with Allen after several pints, but she cannot ever remember a more enjoyable evening. Tom's right: this isn't dancing. It's joy. It's _freedom._

"So, milady, did that measure up to your expectations?" Tom teases, pulling her close.

She smiles. "I don't think I ever could have expected something so wonderful." On impulse, she stretches up to kiss his cheek. "Or a better partner."


End file.
